


haunted

by nuages



Category: Morning Glories
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, Mentions of Character Death, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 01:49:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nuages/pseuds/nuages
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Guillaume has nightmares. So does Hisao.</p>
            </blockquote>





	haunted

**Author's Note:**

> original notes: this idea was born out of the latest mg chat, where someone (i forget who so tell me who you are!) had suggested that guillaume’s parents died in a fire much like hisao’s and that they would stay up at night talking about it. IT ISN’T EXACTLY THAT but that was the inspiration so there you go.
> 
> i haven’t asked anyone to beta this and i haven’t written fully in ages so it’s a little iffy, plus i didn’t have my mg issues at hand, so apologies for any errors or inconsistencies with the comic, or generally just being crappy. sorry sorry sorry.
> 
> new notes: this was done and posted about about a month ago on my [tumblr](http://brodiesangsters-archive.tumblr.com/post/48365889689/haunted-a-morning-glories-fic). i've spruced it up a little (nothing major).

Guillaume does not sleep, for a number of reasons.

He does not like the stuffy old pillow they’ve provided, or the linens still fresh with dust and sweat, or the rusty mattress that squeaks in the middle of the night whenever he moves. He does not like that the room is so barren, that the floors tiles are so cold, and that the walls are so untouched that gracing his fingers on it seem punishable. It is like he is on holy ground, but he isn’t. He does not even want it to be holy ground. He wants it to be home.

It has been like this for days, weeks, months - so much time has passed he doesn’t even remember the last time he tried to lay his head down and close his eyes. He has avoided it. He has avoided the dreams that haunt him in the middle of the night. He has avoided the sight of his parents - dead on the ground - lifeless. He has avoided screaming out to them, as if any piece of hope he has left would bring them back to life. He has avoided the darkness that engulfs him, as his parents slowly fade away into nothing like they were never there.

๑๑๑

_“But they were there!,” he cried out to Abraham, clinging on to him as if his life depended on it. And it was, because all that used to matter to him was dead now. It wasn’t just a nightmare. It was reality and it haunted him._

_(Abraham looked unhappy, and Guillaume did not know if it was because he felt sorry for him or for himself, that he had to carry a child that was not his own and be a father to him.) Abraham told him to be strong, to fight the tears and push them back, because crying would not get him anywhere. He told him to use his anger to gather strength to fight and be better, because uncontrolled rage would not get him anywhere. He told Guillaume to go back to sleep, and to forget the nightmares, and to be ready for tomorrow, because being unprepared would not get him anywhere . Then he closed the door and left him alone._

_Guillaume did not go back to sleep, but he has not cried since._

๑๑๑

He sees a figure in the distance.

It is the new child. The one that Abraham rescued from the fire, the one whose mother was killed and whose brother was stolen, the one Guillaume picked on for no reason other than the fact he liked seeing him annoyed. He enjoyed him being annoyed. He isn’t as fun when he looks lonely. He picks on him whenever he can, so that he never is.

He hikes up the desert hill and sits down next to him. “Hello,” he says, possibly the first friendly thing he has ever said to him.

The boy does not move, and does not even react. He stays there silent, watching the sky, lined with stars on every inch and every corner, but skies do not have corners. They are infinite, and so stars are infinite.

Guillaume watches the stars intently. Though they do not move, they still dazzle, and he begins to wonder if this would be a better distraction than staring at the wall by his bedside until the first bit of sunlight peers through the window to put an end to yet another sleepless night. He wants to ask Hisao if that is how he does it, how he avoids sleep, because he knows that Hisao has nightmares too. He has heard him cry in the middle of the night.

He does not ask. They do not talk. They remain silent until morning comes.

๑๑๑

This time, it is Guillaume who is at the desert hill first.

Again he offers a hello, but still he does not get a greeting. Instead, the boy simply sits next to him, a few inches closer than before, but it’s not as if Guillaume is checking, and it's not as if he knows so well. Hisao lays his hands on the sand beneath him, and breathes in. Guillaume pays attention to him silently. He waits a few more seconds to see if Hisao will tell him to stop staring (because even if his eyes are closed, he knows Hisao can feel him staring), but he doesn’t, so Guillaume turns his attention to the sky above.

They watch the stars again, twinkling against the vast darkness. Guillaume steals glances at Hisao, but the boy never looks back, always so focused on what was above. “It’s a beautiful night,” he whispers to the boy by his side, as if it was a secret for them to keep even though no one was there.

Hisao nods, and Guillaume gathers that it was a better response than nothing.

๑๑๑

It took one week for Hisao to say something.

“Guillaume,” he says, like he doesn’t know if he has the right to use that name, or even if he should be talking in the first place. He breathes in first, and then continues. “How did you end up here?”

Guillaume remains silent, as if their positions had somehow switched and he was the quiet one who gave nothing in return. He hesitates to answer, thinks about leaving or changing the topic, maybe even making a sarcastic remark, anything to avoid it, until Hisao speaks up. “I apologize, that was a very offensive question, I should not—” but Guillaume stops him before he finishes. He places a finger on his own lips, mentioning him to be silent. Hisao nods, and watches as Guillaume lays his hand on the mound of sand between them.

Guillaume spells something out, slowly, shakily, frustration and worry brimming throughout his whole body. “J-u-s-t—l-i-k-e—y-o-u,” Hisao reads, the crooked words dawning on him, and he grows silent. The only sound between them is their breathing, which has grown in intensity, louder and louder, like the tension between the two was crushing them both and the air out of their lungs were being squeezed out until nothing was there to survive.

Then, Hisao moves closer and lays his hand on Guillaume’s. “I’m sorry,” he mouths to him, and offers a reassuring smile. Guillaume nods, and grips his hand, as if Hisao is his only hope in life. He feels tears brimming at the corners of his eyes, ready to poor out, but he holds them in. He tells himself what abraham had told him: _Be strong. Fight the tears. Push them back._

_Forget the nightmares._

๑๑๑

At some point they had grown tired and fell asleep side by side.

Guillaume slept peacefully, and so did Hisao.


End file.
